


The Second Law

by ygrainette



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk confessions, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Post-Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The data you presented, it was very interesting." Delphine's smile is bright, but a little forced, a little brittle around the edges. She fiddles with the strap of her shoulder-bag.</p><p>"Mm." Cosima doesn't look up, concentrates on unplugging her laptop and packing it away into her bag. She's not sure if she's pissed or relieved that Delphine doesn't take the hint, continuing to hover.</p><p>"Would you – we could go get coffee, if you like? I'd like to hear more about –"</p><p>"Delphine." Cosima straightens, looks at her – what? Ex? Girlfriend? Monitor? What are they to each other, now? What were they to begin with? "Stop. Just – stop trying so hard. Please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Law

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 6 of the [2014 Femslash Yuletide](http://femslashyuletide.tumblr.com/) challenge.  
> Theme: _Reconciliation._
> 
> Vaguely AU, set sometime toward the end of S1.  
> I love feedback passionately. I [tumble](http://capricorn-child.tumblr.com).
> 
> Content warning: alcohol as a coping mechanism.

"The data you presented, it was very interesting." Delphine's smile is bright, but a little forced, a little brittle around the edges. She fiddles with the strap of her shoulder-bag.

"Mm." Cosima doesn't look up, concentrates on unplugging her laptop and packing it away into her bag. She's not sure if she's pissed or relieved that Delphine doesn't take the hint, continuing to hover.

"Would you – we could go get coffee, if you like? I'd like to hear more about –"

"Delphine." Cosima straightens, looks at her – what? Ex? Girlfriend? Monitor? What are they to each other, now? What were they to begin with? "Stop. Just – stop trying so hard. Please."

Before Delphine has a chance to reply, she turns and walks away.

* * *

 

It's dark when Cosima leaves the lab. Dark and still and silent, so cold the air burns its way down into her chest with every inhalation. Nothing but her and the yellow sodium streetlights and the blurred streaks of cars passing on the road, and far above, the stars. So very peaceful.

She shoves her mittened hands in the pockets of her coat and starts to walk. It's maybe two miles to her flat, and there is a bus, but it's late and besides, she likes to walk. Especially alone, through cold quiet winter nights. That kind of loneliness is comforting to her.

As she goes, treading carefully – there's been no real snowfall yet this year, but there's still enough ice to send you pinwheeling if you don't watch out – she hums quietly to herself. Does her best to think only of western blots and immunohistochemistry and where she's putting her feet. Pretend she's a grad student and nothing more.

No clones. No conspiracies. No murderous cults. No beautiful girls who love you even as they spy on you.

"Fuck it all," Cosima says aloud. Her breath steams white in the air.

* * *

Getting hella drunk and calling Delphine wasn't exactly a decision.

It just happened. Accidentally. Stochastically. It's practically an expression of the second law of thermodynamics. Inexorable as entropy, there's tequila on the shelf and a photo-booth reel of Cosima and Delphine taped up on the kitchen cabinet. One thing leads to another. Entropy increases, Cosima's a lightweight, and Delphine's number is programmed into her cell.

That first, soft-accented _Hello?_ brings Cosima half to tears.

"I miss you," she blurts out, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I miss you, Phine, all the time. Miss us."

"Oh, _cherie_ ," Delphine says. She sounds so sad. She always does. Always sounds so terribly sad and fragile and the worst of it is Cosima doesn't think it's an act. Doesn't think it's part of the mask, it's just who Delphine _is._ "I'm here. I'm right here. We can – we can go back to what we –"

"We _can't_!" Cosima almost shouts it. This is why she doesn't drink so much, keeps a sneaky joint her vice of choice. Hashish never makes her cry. Never makes her rage. "You know everything about me – all that _shit_ in Leekie's files – you know me more than I know me, and I don't know the first fucking thing about you and – and I love you so much it fucking hurts, Delphine. And I don't know what to do. I just. I don't."

Delphine's making these little noises, and Cosima's pretty sure they're crying noises. Tiny and soft and wet. "Cosima, we –"

Cosima shakes her head violently. Even though no one's there to see. "Don't. Don't. I'm sorry."

She thumbs _End Call_ and before she can change her mind, turns her phone off and tosses it across the room to land on her beat-up armchair. Draws her knees up to her chest and hides her face and lets herself cry and cry and cry.

* * *

 

When she wakes, Cosima's in bed, still in her t-shirt and underwear from the previous day. Hands still loaded down with rings and bracelets. Her mouth tastes sour. The insides of her eyelids are gritty and swollen. Thank fuck it's a Saturday.

She's just about got herself vertical and wrapped in a dressing gown and vaguely pondering breakfast – or at least a glass of water – when there's a knock on the door. Three quick little raps.

There's nothing Cosima wants to do less right now than deal with the little old lady next door who keeps losing her keys, but hell. What can she do? Groaning, she hauls herself up off of her sofa, shuffles over to open the door.

It's not Mrs Diaz standing there. It's Delphine. Tall as life, cheeks whipped rosy red by the cold, cornsilk curls peeping out from under her knitted hat. A thermos flask in one gloved hand – gloves to match the hat, of course – and a red biscuit tin held under her arm.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is shaky. So nervous. "I brought my hangover cure."

Cosima looks at the proffered thermos flask and thinks, _fuck it_. She steps back, lets Delphine in.

The hangover cure seems to be something based around lukewarm ginger tea. Cosima drinks it obediently, takes one of the simple, homemade cookies from the biscuit tin and nibbles it as she watches Delphine. Coat, hat and gloves thrown off, she makes herself busy in Cosima's little kitchen, scrambling eggs, frying up potatoes and bacon, constantly moving, fussing over the food, opening and closing cupboards in search for something or other, trying to find matching sets of cutlery. Like she's afraid to stay still for more than a second.

When the food is done, they eat in silence, Cosima at the table, Delphine standing up and leaning against the doorframe. And that right there is the story of their relationship so far, as Cosima sees it: Delphine always hesitating at the threshold. Neither here nor there.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, weary, wary. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Phine, I appreciate the hangover cure, but … what are you doing?"

Delphine sighs. Runs her fingers through her unruly fair curls, closes her eyes. Says, slowly, "You were right. Of course we can't go back to how we were. I betrayed you. Your trust. I am on your side now, you know that, but …"

"But it doesn't change that," Cosima finishes the thought. She looks down, chases a crumb of fried potato around her plate. She wants to cry all over again.

"You were right. But you were wrong about one thing."

"What's that, huh?" Cosima summons a smile, a half-laugh. Looks back up at Delphine, and waits for the next blow.

Delphine smiles her faint, frightened little smile back. "I don't know you. I mean – I read the files, of course, but _you_? No. You're not just A-T-G-Cs, not just – DNA and data and all those facts. Those didn't tell me anything about _you_ , and it's _you_ I love. You I want to get to know. Can you understand? I want to know you so well, and I want you to know _me_ , and I am so, so sorry."

There are tears gleaming over Delphine's high-coloured cheekbones and Cosima can feel their mirror on her own face. "Phine, I –"

"If you send me away I will never, never bother you again, but I – I want us to _try_. You see?" Delphine smiles through her tears, holds up her hands, palms-out. _Your move._

Cosima takes a deep breath. There's something so open and vulnerable about Delphine right now, so real. Her heart and her head are united, in agreement, inevitable as entropy. "I see," she says, and holds her hand out to Delphine. "I see."

* * *

Later, they sit in the window seat, Cosima's pathwork quilt wrapped around them both. Cosima is sitting with her back to Delphine's front, cradled in her long legs, arms draped over her shoulders, chin resting on her shoulder. They both have papers printed out – the winter break is a chance to catch up on the reading – but Cosima's has fallen forgotten to the floor.

All she wants to do is listen to Delphine's slow steady breathing and gaze out the window into the dark night. The empty sidewalk, the blurs of cars over the long road, headlights catching on the first snowfall of the year.

It's a lonely view, but Cosima's favourite kind of loneliness. The kind that's even sweeter with someone sitting behind you, their heart beating against your spine, alone together.

She ducks her head to press a kiss to the inside of Delphine's wrist.

Maybe they'll be okay after all.


End file.
